The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 3: Merchants: Section III: Ashtaroth

Ashtaroth opened his eyes, meeting Hazzan's. Was the god's face closer than it had been?

He wetted his lips. He must make his offering. Whether or not the fire had anything to do with Ashtaroth, Hazzan would take his guilt upon himself, to loose it amongst the demons of the western desert.

A basket full of incense sat on the floor beside the statue, ready for use alongside a gilded ritual knife and several more of the razors. None of them seemed right. Ashtaroth should give something meaningful. Something of his very own.

Aurelius's carving.

Ashtaroth closed his fingers over the wooden goat. It was so small and delicate, the way he himself had once been. Back then, Aurelius had been a brother to idolize—handsome, clever, and adventurous. Back then, Ashtaroth wouldn't have guessed he'd one day hate Aurelius for those same reasons.

His lip quivered. Aurelius was his brother. How could he ever truly hate him? Just because Aurelius had smiled with Djana, who Ashtaroth didn't even love? Just because a few layabouts at court thought Aurelius would make a better king? Aurelius never would be king. A few whispers from Shaqarbas and those like him hardly mattered. Ashtaroth had Samelqo and Hima's support. And his father's too, of course. Ashtaroth was the seventh child of the sixteenth king.

A true child of Qemassen.

The wooden figure cracked in Ashtaroth's hand, and he frowned, hesitant to look. When he did, the goat lay on its side, one of its legs broken off.

Perhaps it was Hazzan telling Ashtaroth he accepted the sacrifice.

"I'm sorry," Ashtaroth said to the goat, his voice absurdly loud in the room as though to match the absurdity of his apology.

He stood and tipped the figure into the bowl along with both razor and hair, and took a stick from beside one of the braziers to light the fire. Ashtaroth wasted only a breath before touching flame to wood. Some things were easier done quickly.

He bowed curtly to Hazzan, eager to escape the cramped confines of the room, the walls that seemed to press inward. But as Ashtaroth turned to leave, content to let the fire in the basin burn itself out, the crackle and whoosh of a blazing fire erupted behind him.

Ashtaroth swerved and came face to face with a column of fire, a great tower, taller than he was. Orange tendrils like spider legs crept across the ceiling, threatening to crawl down the walls and consume the whole room.

He stumbled backward, toward the doorway. He had to fetch help. He practically bumped into the basin of water at the sanctuary's entrance, beside the foot of the stairs. He grabbed the gold dish from the stone upon which it rested and dashed with it back to the fire.

Through the flames, somehow Hazzan's ivory and horn visage glimmered, still staring at Ashtaroth. He raised the basin and—

"Sese? What are you doing?"

A woman's voice stopped him.

Ashtaroth froze, arms poised to toss the water.

But the fire was out. In the bottom of the dish, all that remained was Aurelius's carving, no longer on its side, but standing—leg unbroken—with the blackened razor beside it.

He drew in a sharp breath, then another. He stepped away, heart pounding, and lowered his arms.

Had he failed? No—his hair had burned to nothing. Hazzan had accepted Ashtaroth's offering. Hazzan had swallowed his sins. Hazzan had returned his wooden toy to him, not only unharmed, but mended. It was all the proof he needed of the god's favour.